He hadn’t been focused on any particular riff. Instead, he’d just been humming to the notes, thinking through what he had to do early in the morning to fulfill the quest that he’d been sent to accomplish. The snapped guitar string didn’t irritate him. He’d brought extra nylon and steel strings. He removed the broken string. But force of habit wouldn’t let him discard it. Instead, he reached for his pants, which were folded neatly beside the bed. Sleeping in clothes inside a sleeping bag wasn’t a good idea. Clothes were never completely dry and the dampness would chill him. Webb wound the length of nylon string into a circle and slipped it into the front pocket of his pants, then folded them again and set them nearby for when he woke up in the morning. Later, he’d burn the nylon in a campfire. He’d done that once already on this trip, feeding the nylon slowly into it like a snake, watching the flame burn the nylon like it was the wick of a candle. He took another drink of water from the bottle beside him, knowing what it would do to him.
